English Steak and Other Meats
by Blake T. Pierre
Summary: A missing bride-to-be is nothing new to the world's only consulting detective. However, the circumstances behind this lady's disappearance might just be worthy of a blog entry.
1. The Case Presented

"John, is there really no new cases?" Sherlock asked from his place in the armchair.

The blogger shook his head, "You refused to take on the last three claiming you had solved similar ones. Then you threw the files at Lestrade."

"Lestrade's mind is so compact," the detective argued. "If he thought more about the evidence and less about his divisions, he might have been promoted."

"There's nothing new," John promised Sherlock, shutting down the computer he had been using to blog. No point in that with a bored Sherlock. "Unless you want to hover over Lestrade's every move."

"John, I need _something_ or we're playing Cluedo."

"Not that again," John begged. "The victim did _not_ do it, Sherlock. It's against the roles and impossible."

"No theory is impossible, John. It's just highly improbable that the victim did it. It's the perfect explanation of all the evidence," the consulting detective argued. He opened his mouth to argue with the blogger some more, but was cut off by the ringing of the bell.

"A client," the dectective said.

"It's rather late for that, don't you think?" the doctor mumbled, getting up to let their client in.

A man of not more than twenty-five stepped in, looking from John, then to Sherlock. He seemed confused for a second until Sherlock got up.

"Judging the woman's touch, I'd say this is some missing lover you need to be found."

"How did you know that?" the man asked, shocked.

"I did not know. I noticed. There's lipstick around your collar. Some strong dye never washed out. Nice colour too. There's a bit of perfume clinging to you. There's no ring on your finger. Girlfriend? Or fiancée?"

"Fiancée," the man said. "She went missing the night before we were supposed to get married."

"I've seen a million cases like this," the detective said. "She's obviously had someone from a previous affair she's run off with."

"Mister Holmes, please listen. It wasn't like Elizabeth to have affairs. She wasn't married before I met her and she's picky about traditions. We didn't even sleep in the same room. She wouldn't allow it unless we were married," the man said.

Sherlock sighed and nodded at the chair across from his own. "Then sit. I'll listen, but I guarantee it's some lover she's run off with."

The man seemed on the verge of fainting with the relief. He hurried to the chair across from Sherlock while John sat at the desk from which he had been arguing not ten minutes ago.

"Tell me the entire story. Do not skip a single detail," the detective instructed.

"Well, Mister Holmes, my name is Henry Gilbert. Elizabeth, Elizabeth Wheatley, and I were supposed to be married two days ago. We were staying in Northern Ireland, a small inn by the name of 'Celtics' Haunt.' A friend of mine had advised a different place, but they were completely booked. Elizabeth was fascinated with the place. She, teasingly, threatened not to marry me if we didn't stay there.

"We checked in and were the only guests. The staff consisted of three people: Mary Harker, her husband, Nathaniel, and Mary's brother, David. Elizabeth really took to Mary, but the other men made her feel a bit uncomfortable. She said she felt like a piece of meat being sized up whenever they looked at her. I offered to sleep in the same room as her, but she wouldn't have it. She also wouldn't let me get rooms somewhere else.

"After lunch, Elizabeth started to feel sick, but she refused to rest. I told her it was fine and we could sightsee after the day of our wedding. She agreed to that plan. Elizabeth went to bed earlier than ever, around seven. She thought she could sleep off whatever it was she had. I told her goodnight and gave her a kiss before she went up to bed."

Sherlock interrogated, "What did you do after she retired to her room? Did you notice anything suspicious?"

"No," Henry replied. "She went to bed and I went to my room shortly after she had gone to hers."

"I refuse to believe that," the detective said, eyes scanning the man in front of him. "You're lying. What did you do after Elizabeth went to her bed?"

The client looked down, guilty. John made a mental note of that. The man said, "I went to write a letter to one of my friends. He was the type to be a mean drunk and a reckless gambler. I knew Elizabeth didn't like him, so I wrote the letter once she was asleep."

"When did you send it?" Sherlock asked the man.

"I went out around eight to walk to town. It took an hour to walk there and I hung out for a bit in town, looking and planning the things Elizabeth and I could do once she felt better," Henry explained. "I started to walk back around ten."

"When did you return to the inn?" Sherlock asked.

"Around eleven."

"You're sure?"

"The grandfather clock they had chimed about five minutes after I got back."

"Did you notice anything strange at that time?"

Henry nodded and explained, "The people who owned the place were eating a meal. I didn't bother them and went up to my room. I didn't bother Elizabeth."

"And you went to sleep?"

"I did."

"And the next day?"

"Elizabeth and I were supposed to be getting married. She didn't show up and people said she ran off. I didn't believe a word of it. But when I went to her room, her things weren't there."

"She didn't leave a note?"

"No," Henry explained. "That's one thing that made it so odd. She would have at least explained her reasons for leaving.

"Did you ask the owners of the place?" Sherlock pressed.

"I did. They said she left in a hurry sometime around ten the previous night."

"Impossible," John said, sitting up a little straighter. He was embarrassed to have two sets of curious eyes on him. Sherlock nodded at the doctor to elaborate. John did so, "If she left at ten you two should have passed each other on the road. Even more so if she was running. It would create more noise."

Sherlock held some bit of pride in his face. He nodded and turned to the client to ask, "Well? Did you see Elizabeth on the walk back to the in? Or hear some commotion of a person in a hurry?"

"I didn't," Henry admitted. "Do you think someone harmed Elizabeth on her walk down?"

Sherlock shrugged and said, "Go on. I need all the facts."

Henry nodded, continuing with his narrative, "After Elizabeth disappeared; I called a local friend of mine who happens to be an investigator. He came up to the inn to ask about Elizabeth. They promised to talk outside. I went to my room, unable to sleep.

"Around ten, there was the sound of a gunshot. And then there was the most peculiar scream and the sound of whatever beast it was falling over. I didn't see my friend again, assured he had gone home. The thing they shot was a dog that needed to be put down."

"Do they keep dogs with them?"

"A golden retriever, I think it was."

"Did you see any other dogs on the premises?"

"An English Bulldog and that one I didn't see the next morning."

Sherlock nodded a bit, sitting back, eyes closing. He ordered, "Finish."

Henry nodded a bit. "I left that day and I've come back to ask you to help me find out what happened to Elizabeth and my friend."

"Do you have a picture of her?" the detective asked, eyes still closed.

The client looked confused, and then pulled out his phone, swiping at it to find a picture of her fiancée. Sherlock opened his eyes, waving John over.

"Does she look lean?" the detective asked, looking at the picture carefully.

John had been staring at the woman's perfectly straight, red hair. She had a good bit of freckles across her cheeks and nose. And her smile in the picture made him a bit angry that she should meet some vile end.

"She does look lean. Why, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at the detective.

Sherlock chuckled a bit, handing the phone back to Henry. The detective said, "We'll be on the case."

Both client and blogger looked a bit shocked at that. Henry shook the detective's hand and words of gratitude poured out, "Thank you so much, Mister Holmes. I just need to know what happened to my Elizabeth."

"And you will," the detective said. "Go home and get some rest. John and I are on the case. We'll have the answer soon, but you cannot be useful tagging along."

Henry nodded and said, "Thank you. I'll be in touch." Then he left, smiling a bit as if his fiancée still had a chance of being alive after that grim narrative.

John turned to the detective and said, "I thought you weren't going to take the case. You said you solved more like it. You even had an explanation."

"But that was before it turned interesting," Sherlock said, jumping out of his armchair. "John, you should get packed."

"Do I want to know why?"

"We're going to that quaint little inn."

"If we have to share a bed, Sherlock," John began to threaten.

Sherlock looked at John with amusement, "From the way it sounds, we can get separate rooms. Now go pack."

John rolled his eyes, sighed in exasperation, and then went to pack. Somehow, this was not going to be an ideal trip. But when had life with Sherlock been ideal?


	2. The Scene Set

John was amazed by how simple the place was. And he could understand why a man would choose to walk the beaten dirt path from the inn to the town. It was a rather uncomfortable drive.

"This should be a simple investigation if my theory is correct," the detective mumbled, snapping John out of his thoughts.

"So you did have one," John replied, looking at the detective.

"A secluded place like this presents all sorts of theories. The first thing we can agree on is that Miss Elizabeth Wheatley is dead," the detective began. "The second is that the family has some connection with her end, directly or indirectly."

John sighed a bit, nodding at the detective's theory. He kept his eyes on the scenery outside.

"The lake might hold some evidence."

"What kind of evidence would a lake have?" John asked his partner.

"The belongings of Elizabeth," Sherlock replied. "That or it is buried."

"And I suppose this trip is to find the evidence to prove your theories," John said.

"But of course," Sherlock replied. He got out first, carrying things up the steps to the inn.

With a slight sigh, John followed after Sherlock while carrying his own bags. Of course, John knew how to travel light from his days as a soldier, but with Sherlock on a case, they could be staying anywhere from a few hours to a week. Sherlock was being handed a key as John stepped inside. Just one. Great. Sherlock looked over apologetically as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. He shifted his things to unlock the door to a room with one bed. Even better.

Sherlock set his things down, turning and explaining, "There's another couple here at the moment. Even better for testing my hypothesis, John."

John set his things on the bed, unzipping them. His only reply was to ask, "What now?"

"We see who gets drugged," Sherlock explained.

"Drugged?" John asked, turning to face the detective. "You're kidding."

"It's a diversion to separate one person from the rest. Why, I'm still working on," the detective said.

"And you'll be needing silence?"

"You are an invaluable companion," Sherlock said, pulling his nicotine patches out. "And you can have the bed. You know how much sleep I need when working on a case."

John had to shake his head. "It's not healthy. You're doing something awful to yourself, Sherlock."

"I'll be fine, John," Sherlock promised, settling into the sofa and applying three patches on before falling into a state of meditation.

John sighed and unpacked both of their things. Nothing would get done if he didn't. Once he was done, he looked over to see a female form in the doorway. The woman stepped forward, smiling at him.

"My name's Mary," she said. "I saw you and…" She looked over at Sherlock with equal parts worry and disdain, "your partner. I thought I would come up to let you two know lunch is ready."

"That's very—"

A voice from the sofa interjected, "We're fine walking to town to get something to eat."

John shot Sherlock a dirty look, one that Sherlock couldn't see. He turned back to Mary, apologising, "He's very particular about his food. I can hardly get him to eat at home."

Mary looked at John, nodding in understanding and seeming to seethe as she glanced at the detective again. "Then you two should get going." She left as silently as she had come, making John wonder if the old inn was actually haunted.

Sherlock sat up, looking at John. "We can't take the risk of either of us being drugged," he said softly. "Knowing their tastes, I doubt it would be either of us unless they had no one else to choose from. Let's go into town to get you fed."

John sighed and asked, "Did you have to be so rude about it?"

"John, I chase men with guns and women dabbling in poisons of all sorts. Forgive me if being nice isn't on my agenda," the detective shot back.

John sighed and watched the way Sherlock moved. He would need to eat. And sleep. "We can trade off on the bed," the doctor offered. "I've slept in worse places."

"John, I'm on the scent. Sleeping and being nice are tied for the last spot on my agenda." Sherlock stalked out of the room, leaving John to follow his long strides. John knew tonight would either mean an adventure for both of them or John worrying enough for the both of them.

They did walk together into town; all the more reason for gossip. Sherlock was far away, though. His engines were running full steam. He only snapped out of it when he realised they had wandered further than intended and ended up at the lake.

"Let's head back to town," John pleaded with the detective.

"I want a moment here," Sherlock replied. He looked out on the surface of the lake, then at the sand on the shore. Then back across the surface, deducing and using some sort of formula. John could see how far away the other man was. And he didn't bother him at all. This was another one of those life-or-death cases.

"That's enough," Sherlock said once he had his deductions, "and what we're looking for is not in the lake. It has to be buried."

"What are you getting at?" John asked, following the detective back to town.

"We're looking at two counts of murder, John. Where would you hide the evidence out here?"

"The lake."

"It's not in the lake."

"How do you know?"

"It would be too suspicious. Not that our current adversaries are particularly brilliant," Sherlock explained. "Going out at night when someone is bound to notice. Or being seen dumping something in the lake in broad daylight. Take your pick, John."

"So they still have it."

"They do and they think the earth hides all secrets."

"Do you want to at least have some coffee?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. He looked over at John. "Trying to get something in me?" he asked.

The doctor replied, "It is a hassle to get you to eat, Sherlock. You're underweight and we both know it."

"And coffee is your solution?"

"It's better than nothing. And you love to use stimulants."

"Then coffee it is, John," he agreed as they kept walking back into town.

They picked out a small place that Sherlock deduced would be fairly empty. John rolled his eyes at that. Always dissecting the world around him. One of his more annoying traits.

John offered, "I'll pay if you want to eat."

"John, I think it's better if I stay focused," Sherlock mumbled before sipping his coffee.

"How is it going to benefit us if you're losing weight like this?"

"Trust me, John. I do not want anything from this place aside from coffee. If I'm right, you'll thank me. If not, then I made one of the biggest blunders of my career," Sherlock explained in a soft tone.

John sighed at Sherlock's methods. Sometimes, he couldn't keep up with the way his mind raced. Instead, Sherlock watched John eat, as if the detective was taking notes. Once John was finished and they had paid, Sherlock got up, leaving John to follow. Sometimes, the doctor wondered if this was the way their relationship would be. Student and teacher, dog and master, follower and leader.

He shook those thoughts off and Sherlock insisted on milling about for a while. Some new experiment, John figured. Finally, they made their way back around dusk. John could see how dark it was along the tree-lined path, but he would have at least heard something or someone running. Sherlock seemed to be on the same page, nodding at some hypothesis proven within the confines of his mind.

Once they returned, Mary greeted them with news, "The wife of the other gentleman staying with us is awfully ill. She's gone to bed early. Hope this won't turn out like the last couple."

Sherlock fit into his acting role, "Poor girl probably just needs to sleep it off. Perhaps John could have a look at her."

"No, she's just in need of some rest," Mary replied. "It might be a problem with the old inn here. Shame to have to close it down."

"It is quaint," Sherlock replied as he went upstairs, John in tow. Once they were in their room, he closed and locked the door behind them.

"What's your theory?" John asked him.

"My theory is we'll be laughed at for suggesting such a thing without proper evidence," Sherlock replied, going to the window and looking outside. When he found whatever he was looking for, he nodded.

"What kind of evidence do we need?" John asked.

"How do you feel about doing a little digging?" Sherlock asked the doctor.

"In the name of science?"

"But of course."

"Then you can count me in," John replied, earning one of those rare smiled Sherlock used when he was particularly proud of him.

"Tonight after the owners are asleep, we'll slip out and do some digging in the name of science."

"With what tools?" John asked, only to have bony fingers wrap themselves around his wrist and drag him to the window.

"See that shed? That's where they're keeping their tools," Sherlock told John.

"It looks far too big to be just a tool shed," John observed.

"And it's where we will find some, if not all, of our evidence, John," Sherlock promised. "And find the fate of Elizabeth and the previous investigator."

"If all goes according to plan," John commented.

"It should all fit in place," Sherlock said. "All my plans have worked before and there's no room for miscalculations."

John nodded and turned away from the window. "What is that building?"

"We'll find out when we br—" Sherlock stared out the window, eyes scanning the field between the building and the house. "Come on, John," he said, rushing to unlock the door and hurry out.

John was forced to jog to keep pace with the detective. By the time they got out the side door, Sherlock groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

"Change of plans, John," Sherlock explained. "How do you feel about saving a damsel in distress?"


	3. The Evidence Gathered

If there was one thing John had learnt in all his adventures with Sherlock. That thing was to never, _ever_ question the detective's methods _under any circumstances_. That was why John found himself perched outside the overly large shack like some barn owl.

Sherlock managed to pick the lock, a skill John still had some grievances about. Not that this was exactly the time to complain. Both men cringed as the lock fell and the door swung open.

The female guest was lying on some macabre sort of table. Leather straps kept her from struggling during whatever grotesque operation might be performed on her. John could tell she had been drugged. Something heavy, definitely. Morphine or the like.

Sherlock stepped forward, looking around, but not at the woman. John, hoping to help her somewhat, loosened the straps and scooped the poor woman up. Sherlock advanced, examining the table. Then he passed over it, fixated on the hooks from the ceiling, the saw on that workbench. Everything that seemed unimportant.

"A slaughterhouse," the detective commented.

John shifted the woman a bit, grumbling, "Well, are we done or are we going to wait until they come back?"

"Don't you understand, John?" Sherlock asked the excitement apparent. "Don't you see what this is?"

"A place to cut meat," he said, starting to carry the woman back to the house. Sherlock stopped him by standing in his way.

"Do you have your gun?" the detective asked.

"I always do. You should know this by now."

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hands together. "I'll let the woman's husband get her out of here before we make our little stand."

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

"These people have hunting rifles, John. It's apparent by the safe they have behind their makeshift counter. What else would they have but guns?" Sherlock asked. Then he shook his head. "We should make sure this woman is safe before I reveal my deductions. Don't be afraid to shoot."

With that, the detective turned on his heels and walked calmly back to the house. John rolled his eyes, turning to his impromptu patient. Just by looking at her, he could tell she was going to be unconscious for quite some time. He looked at her arms, finding a small, sloppy puncture mark on the inside of her right elbow.

And there were other signs of mistreatment. Bruises on this woman's arms and shoulders from what he could see around the straps of her dress. And her bindings had cut slightly, meaning she hadn't fought long before succumbing to whatever drugs she had been pumped full of.

She would have been beautiful without the purple and red painted on her arms. Dark hair and, what he could only assume, dark eyes. A lucky woman to be married to.

The doctor's thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps. His hand reached for his gun, readying himself to shoot to kill. The only thing that stopped him was the whisper from a familiar voice.

"John, we have some time to get her out of here."

"Sherlock!" the doctor exclaimed. "What if I shot you?"

"Then I would be shot. There's not much time, John. I've explained everything to her husband," Sherlock explained, moving quickly to scoop the woman up. She looked like a ragdoll in the detective's arms. Something patchwork, to explain the change of colours around her shoulders and arms.

Sherlock loaded the woman into a waiting cab, her husband, almost fainting with relief and worry. The detective ordered, "Get her home and to a hospital." He closed the door, watching the cab drive down the lane.

"What's out next step?" John asked, arms crossed as he stood next to the detective.

"We wait for dinner, John," Sherlock explained.

"What happened? What was that shack?" the doctor asked.

"You saw for yourself. A slaughterhouse."

"For what?"

"If I'm right, we should find out very soon."

John shuddered and asked, "Why does that make me feel like I'm going to regret this later?"

"It depends on what sets you on edge, John," Sherlock replied. "You've been a surgeon. This should be something you're very familiar with."

"What do you mean?"

"That shack is a slaughterhouse for human beings."

"You can't be serious!" John cried. "What sort of sick people do you think live here?"

"Very sick ones indeed, John," the detective replied.

"How did you deduce it?"

"The table had grooves, much like a morgue slab would for excess fluids. Considering their subjects would still be alive, it was a necessity. There was also a drain in the floor for easy cleaning. The saw on the workbench was for cutting bone and muscle. The hard bits," Sherlock explained to his bewildered companion.

"What's our next step?" John asked.

"With the couple out of harm's way, we can confront these people," Sherlock explained to his blogging companion. "And all we have to do is wait for dinner. I have a few suspicions I still need to ask them about. Then our case will be solved and we can go home."

"Just like that?" John questioned, looking over at the detective in disbelief. "They mutilate people and they're just going to let us walk out through the front door?"

"Not exactly like that," the detective admitted. "I have no doubts that we will make it out of this house safely tonight."

"What makes you so sure?" John asked, following after the detective up to the house.

"John, acting is one of my more honed skills. Have some faith in me, if only for tonight's adventure," Sherlock replied, heading inside and up to their rented room. Then he went and lay down on the couch. "I'll be in my mind palace until dinner is ready. Lock the door until then."

John sighed, knowing Sherlock's mental barriers were thicker than the walls of any medieval stronghold. He did as the detective asked and locked the bedroom door. Maybe, if he was lucky, John could catch a quick nap before what would certainly be an exciting showdown.

John liked to hope that would be the case as he curled up on the bed, falling fast asleep in no time.


	4. The Case Solved

John was roused from slumber with the opening of the bedroom door. There was a flood of light from the hall that dragged the blogger further from sleep. And he was having the best dream. Him and Sherlock safe in their flat on some silly and cat-burglar chase.

"Sorry to wake you," Sherlock murmured, closing the door and locking it again. Sweet darkness was only a temporary relief, though. The detective turned on the bedroom light, making John wince.

"What time is it?" the doctor asked the detective.

"About five minutes away from dinner," Sherlock replied, putting an odd emphasis on the word dinner. John dropped the conversation after that. Sherlock was on a scent and asking him anything was useless at this point. John was almost surprised the detective wasn't locking himself up in his "mind palace."

Instead, John got up from the bed, watching Sherlock pace the room. Next time, they would need something bigger to accommodate the detective's long strides. Sighing, John made himself appear presentable instead of getting too antsy like his partner.

Soon enough—although John had no idea if it was five minutes or five hours—there was a knocking at the locked door. Sherlock rubbed his hands together and smiled. If John didn't know the detective well-enough, he would have suspected some evil plot going through that genius mind.

Sherlock opened the door for the lady of the house. She smiled, though it was forced so horribly even John could tell, and told the couple, "It's time for dinner. It's not our usual fare, however."

"Oh? Why not?" Sherlock asked, slipping into the role of the unsuspecting tourist.

"We've had trouble getting our preferred cuts of meat," she admitted, looking down. Guilt or shame, genuine or faked, only Sherlock knew.

"I'm sure it will be fine. Right, John?" Sherlock asked, turning away from the woman to the doctor.

"It will be fine," he assured the poor woman. Under his breath, he mumbled, "Better than severed heads in the fridge."

Sherlock smiled a bit, letting John know he had heard. The detective said to the woman, "We should be down in a moment. John just needs another moment or two to wake up."

Missus Harker smiled a bit at that. "I hope you don't mind dinner with my brother and husband."

"Not at all," Sherlock told her, smiling at her. "They must be fine men to keep a woman such as you safe."

"Oh there's not much danger around here," she assured him. "I'll let them know you'll be down in a moment." Smiling, she went away and smiling Sherlock closed the door.

"I hope you don't mind them doing most of the explaining as we solve this case," Sherlock told the doctor.

"What explanation would they give us?" he asked.

"Oh, about the murders and why they prefer female victims," Sherlock said to John. "Well, I hope you're ready for dinner, John. Keep an eye on your gun, too."

Now John was worried about what might happen over their dinner. He made sure he had his gun, loaded and ready whenever the detective might need John's aid. Then John followed the detective down to the dining room. Of course, he was not expecting the scene they had walked into.

One man with similar features to Missus Harker had his rifle trained on the detective and doctor as they stepped into the room. The other man, the husband, was arguing with the woman in their native tongue. She didn't seem to want to leave the room, but the man gave her a slap that's sound lingered in the air. Defeated, she left the room, passing the detective and doctor with an apologetic look.

"Get ready just in case," Sherlock breathed to the doctor. John nodded in understanding.

"Sit," the brother ordered the pair, nodding to the two chairs. The husband glared at the duo and kept his own rifle trained on them as they took their seats.

"You've caused quite a stir," the husband said. "Sniffing around here like wolves after a couple of lambs. We haven't caused any harm to anyone."

"Miss Elizabeth was sure harmed," Sherlock pointed out. "Drugged and then led out to your little chop shop out back. How valuable were her parts?"

"Probably not as valuable as the head of Sherlock Holmes," the brother grumbled. "I'm sure we can get something off your companion too."

Sherlock laughed at that, a harsh and bitter sound. He looked from one man to the other, asking, "You don't think I've made arrangements for a situation like this." The detective turned to his companion and said, "John, your gun."

John didn't like the odds, or the fact that Sherlock was announcing his next move to the enemy. But John knew better than to question Sherlock, so he handed over the gun. Both the husband and brother were intrigued by this, but made no move to shoot. Sherlock seemed to smile as he showed them the gun.

"I could kill both of you and save Miss Mary from your mistreatment," Sherlock told them. "Want to know how?"

"How?" the brother demanded, anger coming over his features.

"Nathaniel is no good at shooting. He's too excitable and a horrible shot. Just look at how his hands tremble under that rifle's weight. You, David, knew firing would set him off on an excited episode of reckless shooting. The bullets you two are using are buckshot and no one wants to be picking bullets out of their food," Sherlock explained. "Scare tactics and nothing more."

John looked over at Sherlock, wanting nothing more than to elbow the man who was doing nothing more than taunting the two men who had already said they were going to kill them. Sherlock caught John's look and returned his trademark "John-Trust-Me" look. If they weren't in mortal peril, John might have gone off on Sherlock.

After a long, awkward silence, the brother asked, "Are you two done bickering like an old couple?"

"I am _not_ in a relationship with this man!" John yelled at him. "He's arrogant, keeps me up all night, and I'm pretty sure he only keeps me around because—" John stopped, ducking down as Sherlock opened fire. Three shots from the detective before dragging John out of the room as the maniac butchers opened fire.

"Damn detective," the brother swore. When he got up, the chair he had been sitting at scraped audibly across the floor.

John watched the detective, who seemed to be counting as the brother made his way to the doorframe. About two steps away from finding them, Sherlock jumped up, shooting again before ducking down on the other side, smiling a bit. John heard a long string of swears and the sound of someone falling to the ground. He would have gone off on him, if the door hadn't opened at that moment to reveal none other than Lestrade.

"And where were you when we needed you?" Sherlock said, somewhat taunting as he got up.

"None of your bloody business," Lestrade retorted.

"One's been shot. Nonlethal. The other is just fine, a little shaken," he told him, helping John up.

"Thank you for your help," Lestrade spat grudgingly, "but this isn't my division."

"Your handler sent you to make sure I didn't do too much damage?" Sherlock teased. "Tell me, how is it taking orders from Mycroft? Does he have that same sour look he has with me?"

"He is not my handler," Lestrade argued. "He sent me after you because you have a nose for the worse sorts of trouble. One of these days, you're going to get John or someone else killed."

John interrupted, knowing Sherlock would continue all night at this rate. "Sherlock, let's go."

The detective was still staring at Lestrade with something akin to disgust. Then Sherlock turned away. "Yes, John. We should go. Lestrade can clean up here."

"Git," Lestrade muttered as Sherlock walked off. Either Sherlock didn't care, or he didn't hear because he didn't reply. John guessed it was the former, because the detective was smiling.

As they were leaving, Sherlock called, "Don't forget the shed in the back!"

John could almost feel the loathing Lestrade was radiating from another room. He shuddered at the thought of arguments between Lestrade and Sherlock before John could mediate. But he was soon walking alongside Sherlock on an almost ironically calm night.

"Why do you think I keep you around, John?" Sherlock asked as they walked.

"You said you needed someone with medical knowledge," John pointed out.

"Does that mean you think I have none?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, you're not the type to abide by the 'do no harm' rule," John pointed out.

"The Hippocratic Oath is an entire contradiction. To solve the problem, you must do some form of damage to the patient. Surgery involves cutting someone open, prescriptions slowly degrade the body," Sherlock lectured.

"Then why do you keep me around?" John asked him, starting to get upset. He knew Sherlock was right and it annoyed him to no end.

Sherlock halted their walk and looked, studied John's features. It was a vast silence that made John uncomfortable. Something in Sherlock's eyes as he studied him made John want to turn and run off.

"I don't know," the detective told him.

"What do you mean you don't know?" John asked him, almost feeling disappointed. "You're the brightest man I've ever met and you don't know?"

"The best I can do," Sherlock began, silencing John immediately, "is to say I need someone to think on a normal level. Someone who understands the common man because I can't. Then, taking into account that I refuse to sleep and eat as is normal, and I need a doctor. A personal one as old-fashioned as it seems so I don't have to spend time in the hospital for mundane reasons. And, finally, I needed someone who wouldn't mind if I put on three or five nicotine patches at once, someone who thought that talking to a skull about a case is normal. And, I know you think I'm arrogant, but I don't have time to chart the course of my life. I need someone who has no problems telling people the good and bad sides of me. I think I found the right balance with you, John, and that's why I only have one friend."

John was a little awestruck at that. It wasn't poetic and was a bit coarse, but it was Sherlock thinking. And that last bit at the end made John feel somewhat honoured. Of course, the detective didn't know how to stay in the mood.

"You ate human flesh."

"I did _what_?" John asked him, feeling sick.

"I told you not to eat while we were here," Sherlock told him, smiling a bit. "Whenever those people butchered someone, they sent the meat to different shops and restaurants in the village."

"And you just _forgot_ to tell me this?" John asked, shaking a bit.

"No. I waited until we were out of danger. Feel free to strangle me at your leisure," Sherlock told him. "How did it taste, John? Out of curiosity, of course."

John shook his head, utterly sickened at the thought. Sherlock could see in, solely by the light of the moon, that John had turned a rather interesting shade of green. The doctor demanded, "Why would you let me do that?"

"To cause a scene would have blown our cover," Sherlock pointed out. "You know how married I am to my work."

"I hate you so much," John told him. "I think I'll hold off on your offer to strangle you until you least expect it."

Sherlock chuckled a bit at that. "I'm sure you'll find the perfect opportunity. Just tell Missus Hudson that I was on a case."

"Oh no," he told him. "I'm telling her you let me eat human flesh, put us in mortal danger against cannibals, and then got us shot at."

"And give her a heart attack?" Sherlock asked.

John opened his mouth to say something, but he knew Sherlock has twisted the conversation. So he replied with, "I hate you, you arrogant, self-absorbed, workaholic."

"But wasn't this a fascinating case?" Sherlock asked. "I doubt we will find another like it ever. Cannibalism isn't very common these days."

"Stop talking about it," John begged him. "I don't want to hear any more."

Sherlock simply nodded and told the doctor, "You have my full permission to put this on your blog, but I think you should omit the part about eating human flesh."


End file.
